


Though the Darkness Comes

by kasiapeia



Series: Nothing Can Break Me Except Your Absence [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Angst with an eventual happy ending in a different fic, Casual Sex, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Established Relationship, F/M, Man Hawke and Cullen really don't like each other but GRIEF IS GREAT, Mutual Pining, Past Relationships, Pining, Public Nudity, Surana is Lavellan so treat them as one character, Takes place during DA2 and pre-Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasiapeia/pseuds/kasiapeia
Summary: 9:36 Dragon -  Velathra has fled Kinloch Hold, and now resides with her mother's kin, Clan Lavellan. As she prepares to accept Mythal's vallaslin, she reflects on what drove her to leave Ferelden in the first place. His name, she cannot forget, but tonight, she will be reborn as the First of Clan Lavellan.9:37 Dragon - It is due to Cullen Rutherford's mistakes the woman he loves is no longer with him. It is due to Elira Hawke's mistakes that the man she loves is no longer with her. Both try to forget their pain in each other. It does not work.Two short stories of lovers who have spent years trying to pretend like they don't still love each other, even if they do. A prequel to Let Chaos Be Undone, but can be read as a standalone.





	1. Bitter is Sorrow - Velathra

**Author's Note:**

> For Erica, who asked about what happened to Vel/Cullen between the events at Kinloch in Origins, and the start of Dragon Age: Inquisition in _Let Chaos Be Undone_ , so uhhh here you go. An angst ridden story of lovers who want to forget each other but can't.

**—9:36 Dragon—**

_Mighty of arm, and warmest of heart,_  
_Rendered to dust. **Bitter is sorrow** ,_  
 _Ate raw and often, poison that weakens,_  
 _and does not kill._

Ferelden after the Blight is little more than land stained with the crimson blood of men, and the black ichor of the darkspawn. For each of the rotting bodies of monstrous creatures, which still litter fields, there lies three victims alongside them—men, elf, and dwarf alike.

She had done her best to help, calling upon the spirits of the Fade to help her heal those who’d been poisoned by the darkspawn’s Taint. She’d saved the lives of soldiers who were hardly older than herself—children, called to fight and die for the safety of their kingdom. A year, she had served with the Grey Wardens alongside the Hero of Ferelden, fighting to drive the last of the darkspawn out of Ferelden lands. Another year spent by the Hero of Ferelden’s side as her trusted advisor, before finally disappearing into the background.

_Queen Claretta Cousland could not afford to show emotion. Though this was not Orlais, and the nobility would not depose of her at the first opportunity they received, the royal court was still cutthroat. If they saw her cry, rumours would stir of the young queen’s weakness. But she was the Champion of Ferelden, Vanquisher of the Archdemon Urthemiel, Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and now Queen-Consort to King Alistair Theirin. Everyone knew she was not weak._

_Her hands shook as they grasped hers, and her grey eyes glistened with tears. “Be careful,” she whispered._

_“I can handle myself,” came her reply._

_She cracked a small half-smile. “I know, but I still worry.” She pulled her into a tight embrace, her head buried in the elven woman’s ash blonde hair. “The world out there is dangerous, my dearest Velathra, and I would not want to see you hurt again.”_

Her heart aches as she recalls what drove her away from the home. Not the monstrosity of the darkspawn plague, but the cruelness of a single, human soul. She does not know how long it will take for her to forget about Cullen Rutherford. It has been years, and her breath still catches in her throat whenever she remembers the gentleness his amber eyes had once held. Oh, how she had searched for that gentleness the day she had left— _“Do you truly love me no longer?” she asked. His silence was the only answer she needed—_ only to find nothing but a bitter anger directed at her.

But he cannot hurt her here. She is miles away, in the land of her birth, with her mother’s people. Clan Lavellan has a better relationship with humans than most Dalish clans do, but even they were wary of accepting this human-raised elven mage into their clan. _Thank Mythal_ , Velathra thinks _, for the Keeper._

Keeper Deshanna looks over at her, a single brow quirked. Even to an unsuspecting outsider, the relation between the two elves is clear; they possess the same heavy-lidded eyes, high cheekbones, and the smattering of pale freckles that dot an upturned nose. Velathra seems to lack her grandmother’s colouring, however, with her ashy hair, and emerald eyes. She is like her father, in that sense, if Bann Trevelyan’s words regarding his former servant are to be believed. Sometimes, she almost wishes her father had let the Bann die, rather than sacrificing himself in his stead.

“What bothers you, _da’len_?” asks Deshanna, setting down a bottle of mahogany ink on her desk.

Velathra snaps out of her reverie, bringing her attention back to the matter at hand. “Nothing,” she answers, praying Deshanna will not call her out on her lie. “Merely worried.”

Thankfully, she does not. “It is an important day for you.” She runs her calloused thumb over the tops of Velathra’s cheeks where the skin will soon be stained with a promise. “To earn one’s _vallaslin_ so soon… I had my doubts about you, _da’len_ , as we all did. I thought you might perhaps take after your mother—running away to live with the _shemlen_ rather than take your place as Second. It seems it was a wise decision I made, accepting you into our home.”

Though Deshanna does not mean to be cruel, her words remind Velathra that she will never truly belong here, with Clan Lavellan in the wilds of the Free Marches. No matter what she does, she cannot erase her past. “No.” Velathra does not give anything away in her tone. “I have made my decision. This is where I will stay.”

The Keeper of Clan Lavellan smiles, and the markings of the goddess Andruil she wears inked on her skin contorts. “Mythal has guided your heart true, _da’len_. Soon, the whole of Thedas will see that.”

Someone clears their throat as they step into Deshanna’s aravel, knocking on the open door as an afterthought. “ _Hahren_ ,” says Telin, bowing his head in respect, but his ice blue eyes flicker with merriment under his long, pale lashes. “Forgive me, I did not know you were here.”

She laughs. “How strange it must be, to find me in my aravel,” she says, and an embarrassed blush spreads across Telin’s visage. “You are here for Velathra, I presume?”

“I pray I am not interrupting her mediation—”

Velathra rises on shaking legs. She had been meditating for days now, and tonight, her efforts will pay off. Under the light of the autumn moon, she will pledge herself to Mythal, and to her clan as Deshanna inks branches into her skin to mark her promise paid in blood. “You are not,” she says. She is more than prepared, she thinks, for tonight. She will make no sound, even as the needle pierces her skin a thousand times over. The pain cannot compare to the pain she has already endured. The scars on her shoulders burn as she thinks about them for a split second, before Deshanna draws her attention elsewhere.

“I will grant you some privacy. Be quick,” she murmurs, excusing herself, and shutting the door to the aravel behind her.

No sooner than she is out of earshot, Telin disposes of any sense of propriety, and pulls the shorter elf into an embrace. “Are you nervous?” he asks her, holding her at arm’s length after a moment. He displays own oath to Elgar’nan proudly, the green-black vines twisting around his features. They suit him, framing his strong nose, and sharp jaw.

She pushes herself away from her, normally grateful for his company, but today she cannot indulge him. He helps her forget the horrors she experienced at Kinloch, and he is kind, gentle—though he is often brash—but he treats her carefully, trying not to break her. For once, she would like to be looked at as though she is whole, and undamaged, even if it is not true.

“Naturally.” She seats herself down at the small vanity, trying to make sense of her curling hair in the clouded mirror. She twists it away from her face, leaving a majority of it down. Her ears stick out prominently through her locks. She will not hide them. Not any longer.

“I’m proud of you.” Telin goes to grab her shoulder reassuringly, but falters when he remembers the scars that litter the skin beneath the white fabric of her gown. Instead, he places his hand gently down. “Do they still hurt?”

 _Emotionally, or physically?_ Velathra asks herself. She lies: “No.”

He tilts her chin so he can press his lips to hers, “Good.”

For a second, she sees someone else in his features, the flickering orange candle making his blue eyes appear gold, and the shadows almost hiding his vallaslin. She swallows, hard, and turns back to her mirror. _He isn’t Cullen,_ she has to remind herself. _It isn’t him._

“Promise me you will not look,” she asks of him. They will remove her clothes once Deshanna is finished, rendering her as naked as a new-born babe. Her scars will be visible for all to see, but there are few in her clan who do not know the tale of how she earned them. Those that thought it shameful were quickly reprimanded by the clan. Now, all accept that they are simply part of who she is. She is not ashamed of her clan seeing her bare, but something about Telin seeing her… Mythal help her, she feels like she is going to be sick.

Telin nods, solemnly. “Of course, _vehnan_.”

She does not acknowledge his name for her. They have been together but a year—a recommendation on Deshanna’s part, in order to move on from Cullen—but she does not know yet if she loves him.

“I will see you at the ceremony,” he says finally, realising he will not coax much more out of her tonight. She is too tired from all the preparations, and once she is formally recognised as a woman by her clan, perhaps he can get something else out of her rather than words.

She does not bid him goodbye.

She is escorted, in silence, to the _dahl’mythal_ , the sacred tree of Mythal from which all Keepers’ staves are hewn, and by which all Dalish promises are made. Her white gossamer gown will be stained with her blood, and the ink that will forever stain her skin by the end of the night. The entire clan is gathered in solemn silence. She is the only one who will make her promise to the gods tonight, and it is more of a special occasion than usual. After tonight, she will no longer be the mage Velathra Trevelyan. She will be Velathra, the First of Clan Lavellan. She will be reborn.

She falls to her knees at Deshanna’s feet, her head bowed. The ritual is to be carried out in silence. All she can hear is the pounding of her heart in her ears as Deshanna prays to Mythal for protection before gently guiding Velathra downwards, until she lays amongst the roots of the _dahl’mythal_. Each prick of Deshanna’s needle results in sharp, white-hot pain, and for hours, Deshanna painstakingly paints Mythal’s sacred branches—not entirely like the branches of the _dahl’mythal_ which are black silhouettes against the moonlit sky above her head—onto her skin. She lies there, in complete silence, even as blood pools, and blends with the brown ink. Velathra cannot feel anything but the fiery heat of pain that dances across her cheeks, but yet…

She does not cry out.

It is all over before the sun rises, and she stands bared before her clan as her blood and ink stained gown is removed from her form, and thrown into a roaring fire. The last connection to who she was before this, burned to ash. They wrap her in leathers, and emerald green cloth to match her eyes, and she is presented as _Ve’lath’ra_ , First to the Keeper before all her clan. And they sing, and toast to her name, as they celebrate late into the night.

“You looked beautiful,” Telin tells her, pulling her away from festivities, to dance in the darker corners of their camp, uninterrupted. His pale gaze settles on the branches of Mythal that are now a part of her, before raising a hand up to touch his markings of Elgar’nan. “The All-Mother, and the All-Father. Perhaps we were meant to be.”

Her stomach churns as he kisses her. He is not the man she wants, but she cannot have the man she wants, so she must settle. He means well, and he will care for her, even if she does not love him back. “Perhaps,” she replies.

That night, as the sun rises she lets him take her, hoping it will help her forget. And it helps, but only slightly. In the morning, she wakes beside his sleeping form, and wishes he was someone else. There is an ache in her, a desire she can never fully satiate, and a regret that still haunts her. She is someone else now, and it should be easier to move on, but she does not move on.

And she does not forget.


	2. Scars Beyond Counting - Cullen

**—9:37 Dragon—**

_I have face armies,_  
_With You as my shield_  
 _And though I bear **scars beyond counting** ,_  
 _Nothing can break me_  
 _Except your absence._

Elira Hawke is a host unto herself. She is a formidable creature, and a fiery temper. A dangerous combination, Cullen thinks, when one is a mage. He does not trust her, but after all that has happened, Hawke knows of the danger her fellow mages pose. The ruins of the Kirkwall Chantry which have still not been cleared serve as a painful reminder for the Champion of Kirkwall; the doings of her former lover, the mage Anders, who took far too many innocent lives that fateful day.

Cullen does not know where Anders is now for Hawke has forbidden the man from ever returning to Kirkwall, and no one has the courage to challenge Hawke’s decision. It is best, he thinks, that Anders stay away. There are a hundred people in Kirkwall who would have his head the instant he stepped through the gates, should he return.

The Knight-Commander leans against the bar counter of the Hanged Man, trying to drown out Hawke’s drunken boasting of her feats behind him, spurred on by her dwarven companion, Varric Tethras. He has heard all her stories a dozen times, and he would rather be deaf than have to hear them again. She might be the saviour of Kirkwall, but she is still an arrogant apostate, and as a templar, Cullen _should_ have the right to force her into a Circle.

Somehow, he suspects that would not be received well.

“Look who it is.” Elira’s thick Ferelden accent fills his ears, but all he hears is the scraping of iron against stone, the sound is so unpleasant. She sidles up alongside him, and he is surprised to see that she wears not her usual armour, but a simple beige tunic, and a pair of charcoal trousers. Beneath the heady scent of alcohol that surrounds her, he catches a whiff of pungent elfroot.

He almost falls out of his chair, he stiffens so quickly. “What do you want, Hawke?” he asks, trying to hide the pain he is in with hostility. He once knew another, an elven mage, who had always smelled of Elfroot.

_Elfroot and embrium._

Maker, he still remembers how she’d appeared when they’d first met.

_“You know, I haven’t seen the sky in months.” She was a young, rather slight mage, he thought to himself. Not a rather large threat, but he still couldn’t believe that they’d only sent out a single, rather new templar out with her. Did they not think her a threat? “Not since Septimus tried to run away, and Greagoir put us all back under house arrest. I used to hate going outside, that’s the funny thing. I suppose you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, no?”_

_He was surprised she was even talking to him. Perhaps it was because he was new. Most of the mages in the Circle were terrified of him, the big, tall templar that he was. Yet, there was no trace of fear in her wide, green eyes. Maker help him, she was even smiling. He refused to keep her gaze for long, kicking the ground instead. “You know I’m not really supposed to be talking to you.”_

_She only laughed. “Oh, who’s going to report you?”_

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Curly.” He hates that nickname. It’s the dwarf’s fault, and he knows it. Damned author assigns a childish nickname to everyone he meets. “You alright?”

“Since when do you care about my well-being, Hawke?” he growls, and beneath the bar counter, his hands curl into fists so tight his nails leave crescent shaped dents in his skin.

She bristles with anger, crossing her arms. In the golden light of the lanterns, her skin seems even more golden than usual, bringing out her Antivan heritage. All it does is make her short, black hair seem even darker. “Politeness, templar,” she snaps back. Cullen notices that the tips of her fingers are stained green. “You should try it sometime.”

He brushes her words off without a second thought. “I did not realise you were an alchemist,” he says instead, not wanting to provoke her further. Sometimes, it was better to take the insult rather than start yet another fight with the Champion.

She frowns, not understanding how he came to the conclusion, before her gaze drops down to her hands. “Oh. I’m not. Not really. I was trying to making a healing poultice.”

“Is that what you are now? A healer?”

“Maker, no.” She cracks a small smile, and it’s almost nice, he thinks, to see her something but angry for once. “I was never… the healer in my… group.” Just as soon as her smile had appeared, it is gone. She chews on her lower lip, blue eyes glassy as she thinks of Anders. Cullen had never liked the blonde-haired mage—though he was rather biased, due to recent events—but he had heard of the “miracles” he’d preformed for civilians, healing them when all hope of survival was lost. “I thought someone should try to fill his role.”

He does not feel sympathy for her, yet he tries to express it anyway. “I am sorry about what happened.”

And, as expected, she calls him out for it. “No, you’re not.” Somehow, he knows Anders is why she has spent many a night here, drinking her grief away. “I hated him too. Now…”

“Hate,” he tells her, “often masks our real emotions.”

“What do you know of hate masking love?”

_“Do you truly love me no longer?” Her voice did not waver as she asked him the simple question. She was quiet, almost resigned, like she had made her peace with what she knew his answer would be. He did not want to give his answer to her. It would only make the events true, but how could he love her?_

_Her actions had resulted in the deaths of so many of his friends, so many innocent lives. Her actions had led to him being tortured, night and day, by a demon who had wanted nothing more than to see him wrapped around its finger. It had used his affections for the mage standing before him against him, and now he could see their relationship for what it truly was: sinful._

_He was a templar, and she was a mage, and she deserved to be subjugated, ruled by the iron fist of the templars. She posed a threat to all, with her magic, and the infernal spirits whispering in her ears._

_His silence was the only answer the ashen-hair elf needed._

_“I see.” Her voice, this time, did crack. “You’re right. I am the worst mistake you ever made.”_

“Too much,” he tells Hawke, and hopes that this next glass of ale helps him forget the name of the mage he’d given his heart to.

Hawke merely looks at him, still leaning on the counter, and the next thing he knows, he’s in her bed, both trying drunkenly to pretend like they aren’t still in love with the people they’d pushed away. It’s fast, and it’s hard, and it’s angry, and it’s desperate. Neither party cares about the other. This is about using pleasure to suppress the memories, about using someone else to allow them one night where they can pretend that they’re not torn up inside. But when the morning comes, neither can get the taste of their lover’s names off their lips, even as they try again, and again, and again, to forget their past in each other.

This affair continues for weeks; a mutual agreement to drop everything unimportant the instant the other comes calling. Sometimes, he takes her while she weeps. He asks if she wants to stop, but she shakes her head, and orders him to continue. On those nights, she finishes crying out another man’s name. Other times, it is he who weeps, and it is he who finishes sighing another woman’s name.

Everyone else has suspicions about what they are doing, but no one mentions it. During the day, the two of them hate each other. During the night, they drink until they can’t see straight, and chase pleasure as though it is the only thing that keeps them alive, and perhaps it does, because neither can find joy in their lives anymore. It’s as though everything’s gone grey, and it is only when the spots behind his eyes hide Hawke’s features enough he can pretend she is someone else that he feels like he’s living.

And then, one night, out of the blue, she disappears, taking her Tevinter companion with her. All she leaves behind is a letter with the bartender, addressed to Cullen.

_Rutherford,_

_I’m going to go find him. I won’t spend my entire life regretting a mistake._  
I do not know who this girl of yours is, but I suggest you do the same.  
Take care of yourself.

_Yours,_

_E. Hawke_

_(Post-script: I wish you the best. You're not as bad as I thought you were.  
You don't deserve to be alone.)_

 

_**[Continued in Let Chaos Be Undone...]** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't read _Let Chaos Be Undone_ , some important notes:  
> \- Elfroot and embrium is what Velathra, a spirit as well as practical healer, typically smells like, as she uses both in many of her potions. Elfroot particularly for healing poultices, and embrium for helping dilute lyrium, as well as its healing properties. The first time Vel and Cullen met, he was escorting her on a trip outside Kinloch Hold to pick some fresh Elfroot and embrium for her potion making.  
> \- Hawke and Anders were together (happily) for the majority of their time together, but unable to excuse him blowing up the Chantry, and physically incapable of killing him for his mistake, Hawke exiled him, and told him she'd kill him the next time she saw him. (She soon regretted this decision, and spent years mourning her mistake.)  
> \- Cullen blamed Velathra for the success of Uldred's uprising, as her friend Joawn killed ten templars with blood magic when he escaped the tower, and Velathra did not stop him. In Cullen's eyes, those twelve templars could have helped stop Uldred. (This was primarily because the Desire Demon put these thoughts in his head.) Not knowing that Vel was also tortured by Uldred and his demons, he blamed her, and in return, she left with the Hero of Ferelden, Claretta Cousland, and temporarily joined the Wardens.

**Author's Note:**

> Elven translations:  
>  _Telin_ \- Nobody, no one. Lit. No blood.  
>  _Ve'lath'ra_ \- Lit. That which love left behind.  
>  _Dahl'mythal_ \- The tree of Mythal, from which all Keeper staves are carved. A sacred tree for the Dalish, that does not typically grow inside, or near human settlements.  
>  _Da'len_ \- Child, little one. A term of endearment.  
>  _Hahren_ \- Elder, leader. A term of respect often used for Dalish Keepers or elders of an Alienage.  
>  _Shemlen_ \- Humans. Lit. Quick children. A derogatory term.


End file.
